I never use this blog anymore unless I need a place to capture some major thoughts. Writing stuff down is always how I process and I needed a place to catalogue these thoughts so I can remember them in the years to come and (hopefully) laugh at myself. Anyways…

I always knew that pregnancy was hard. I watched my friends for years struggle with all the fun symptoms that this stage of life brings as they brought their little ones into the world. I knew when they told me (repeatedly) that you never really know how hard it is until you do it that they were right. It looked hard, but they made it look doable too. (Probably because I didn’t see them at home as they struggled with odd shaped pregnancy pillows or the zillion other weird pregnancy things.)

Now, at the beginning of my third trimester I know how hard this is and I can feel how much harder it gets each day. My first trimester, like many, was full of sickness. If I could keep a piece of toast down (which most days I couldn’t) it was a good day. Each week I felt the mental and physical exhaustion that this tiny life was creating. And while the physical exhaustion was so, so real (hello, 5 p.m. naps!) the mental exhaustion was so much more challenging than I ever knew possible. Being sick all the time and still having to make it to work on time was a huge struggle. I cried a lot and about nothing. But I took comfort in the fact that the second trimester was supposed to get easier.

And it did. I feel better and had more energy. Got tons done at work and the mental exhaustion started to clear. I had a small scare at my 20 week ultrasound, but after (waaaay) too much googling and some reassurance from my doctor I felt at piece with everything that was so obviously out of my control. But, as a I sit on the edge of the third trimester a thick, thick depression has formed. I’ve cried a lot more than I knew possible this week as I waited in labs and got so many blood draws that my arms look like I’ve taken up an illicit recreational activity. I waited for results and prayed that I wouldn’t have gestational diabetes. I mean, how could I?! I’m youngish, I was super active before my pregnancy, I still worked out and had lots of energy andI didn’t eat too crazy (even if I do love ice cream on occasion.) I was wrong. I felt like my body had betrayed me. I felt like shocked. Apparently, young, seemingly healthy people can end up with gestational diabetes too. And apparently my scare at 20 weeks made my likelihood a bit more than most.

I sat on phone calls and got scheduled for a zillion appointments. Searched Pinterest until I was blue in the face. Listened to the nurse tell me my pregnancy was high-risk and my child could be stillborn. But mostly, I prayed. I prayed through walls and walls of tears that in this God would be glorified. That with every week that passed I would feel the idolatry of control leaving my body. That I would know that food is not God and that I feel at peace as I planned my approved meals and went to all my new appointments. That I wouldn’t worry about how much sick time I’m using or if I’ll have to be induced. That in this I would know God more deeply and trust him more fully than if this hadn’t shocked my system that radically reoriented the end of my pregnancy.

I can feel this little boy kick (ouch!) as I write this and I’m so happy that he is strong and active and that in 11ish weeks he’ll likely be living on the outside. So even as I prick my finger and eat all the kale in the world, I know that every day is closer to meeting this little person, to seeing his face, and telling him how much I love him. So I continue on, albeit a little teary and looking forward to the end of pregnancy for precious cuddles (and a scoop of ice cream) but I know that God is changing me and I hope I’m a better mom to my son because of it, but more importantly I hope I know even more the sufficiency of Christ in all things.